First Time
by Schmiezi
Summary: His soul needed a thunderstorm now, or at least a proper rainfall, cold and merciless, drenching his clothes and drenching his soul. Painful. With thunder vibrating in his ear drums and lightning cutting through the dark, swirling sky.


_This fic was part of an fic exchange with a summer theme._

 _Dear Vhanja, here is your fic. Part of our prompt was "Johnlock, drama, angst and happy ending". I hope you can find all that in this fic. As an additional prompt you gave me the words "coffee, chocolate, library, old books and whisky". I really hope you like what I made of it._

 _I am sorry for not making a case fic out of it._

Many thanks to katzedecimal and ukaunz for some high-speed beta-reading!

* * *

 **First Time**

Soft summer rain was drizzling down on him. It made the city smell of earth. A wonderful smell, linked in his mind to childhood and freedom and joy. A smell of freshness, of growth. The water in the air was so light and warm that it felt like it was caressing you. A pleasant, almost sensuous sensation.

How could the London weather screw it up so completely?

His soul needed a thunderstorm now, or at least a proper rainfall, cold and merciless, drenching his clothes and drenching his soul. Painful. With thunder vibrating in his ear drums and lightning cutting through the dark, swirling sky. He should be freezing and shaking and his hands should be stinging from the cold and his trousers should be plastered to his cold, stiff legs. He should be so wet that moving was painful, so cold that his nose was running and his cheeks were freezing.

Instead, he merely felt his hair slowly curling up under the constant drizzle. That was not helpful at all!

Oh how he longed to be as miserable on the outside as he was on the inside but the weather did not appear to be cooperative.

Was John feeling better?

But it didn't matter. It shouldn't. He didn't want to feel protective of John right now. He wanted to loathe him, to curse his name and damn the day they finally kissed for the first time.

And what a glorious first kiss that had been. A clash of lips and teeth and hunger. Two starving souls, desperately in love for so many years, lost in a place without hope for too long. It was clumsy, and too wet, and absolutely perfect. The first time they kissed. Unexpectedly, out of the blue. Seven months ago now. The unexpected beginning of a life so rich and colourful and warm and safe.

But no, he didn't want to indulge that memory. He was angry. Angry with John and angry with himself. But that wasn't the right thing to be, was it? No, being angry with John was what he needed to focus on. Just being angry with John. Because John had been mean.

Unbelievably so. John was not supposed to be mean. He was supposed to be warm and gentle and wrong occasionally and angry at the world and life and fate sometimes, but never angry with Sherlock. Not angry like that. You-insufferable-git-angry, yes, or What-have-you-done-to-the-fridge-angry. Not angry enough to lash out at him and say things that hurt.

The rain was so soft that puddles were only just forming. Sherlock tried to stomp through them in an impressive way but that only caused little ripples.

It had not been Sherlock's fault, and that was the most unfair part of it. Because let's face it, Sherlock often did things that had the potential to make John angry, to make John regret the first kiss and everything that grew from it. But not today. Today, it has not been Sherlock's fault, and yet here he was, stomping the streets of London, angry with John, far from being as cold and miserable as he should be.

The soft warm drizzle still refused to soak Sherlock's jacket. Damn those summer rains.

His mobile was quiet.

Of course it was. No message from John, saying he was sorry. No call from John, saying he was sorry. Nothing.

Was John sorry? Sherlock was but that was not helpful at all because it has not been his fault.

He slowed down a bit. Strolling was more compatible with the weather today. Despite the rain it was warm, and the other people around him were in no hurry either. He tried strolling angrily but it didn't work. Maybe it was enough to stroll with an angry look on his face? Yes, better.

Should Sherlock contact John first? But what should he say? John already knew that Sherlock was angry. The shattered whiskey glass surely left no doubt. And the knocked over chair. And the slammed door.

There had been a chair knocked over the first time they had sex, too. He had been scared of it for weeks. Scared that having sex would change the nature of their relationship. For the worse, because really, it could not get any better. Scared that he would not like it. His experiences were patchy at best. Most of them collected while high or craving and none of them were fulfilling. Scared that he liked it but wasn't good enough so John would not like doing it with him.

How unnecessary those doubts had been. Waiting a few weeks after kissing had made them both so needy that they exploded like a thoroughly shaken bottle of champagne. A touch here and a pinch there, and they were over each other like school boys, and before they could both wonder about liking it or not, they were satisfied beyond compare.

Later, they found softer ways to make love, more gentle ways to last for hours, but that first time had been perfect just the way it was.

His hair was all curly now. He hated it. John would love it. He had an obscure soft spot for product-free Sherlock-hair for whatever reason.

Let's face it, the sex was fantastic. Like the one time John secretly gave him a hand job at the London Library, in front of books so old that even Sherlock felt humble leaning against the shelf while coming.

Maybe Sherlock should just go home, tell John he was forgiven and resume working on the case with him. He could even bring a stupid little present like chocolate or flowers. Well, that was only a good idea if John was done being angry too. And if John also felt like it was up to Sherlock to forgive him.

And has he in fact already already forgiven John? Good question. His words still lingered in Sherlock's mind, painful and burning like coffee in your stomach when you are drinking too much of it during a difficult case. And unfortunately, he knew how that burnt. But he has not experienced that feeling in quite some time because John always stops him just before it would be too much.

Sherlock was simply not used not being to blame for an incident. Hence, he had no idea how to deal with being the guiltless party of a fight.

He realized that the drizzle must have stopped some time ago. The streets were damp now, the water evaporating from the warm ground. The sun has not broken the clouds yet but it seemed to be only a matter of time. Damn.

The dreadful words had come out of the blue. Or hadn't they?

Looking back at the last few hours, Sherlock had to admit that John had been very quiet for a while. When had it started? At the crime scene. Sherlock had deduced and John had admired him, and then suddenly, John had stopped talking. But why?

In his mind, Sherlock replayed the scene. How they entered the crime scene together. How they were led into the room where the corpse was lying. How he deduced that the victim had cheated on his wife. How he told John. How John was unable to follow the deduction. How Sherlock had told him that it hadn't mattered and how Sherlock had gone on analysing the crime scene.

Yes, that was the point where John had stopped talking. But why?

He left the mind palace again and realized that he was walking through a park now. The air was humid and warm and he was sweating instead of being miserable and cold. At least his shirt was sticking to his chest now in a really unpleasant way. Not as good as freezing until your teeth were chattering but better than feeling all warm and soft inside.

The silence of John was still a riddle. He had remained silent on their way home. There, in the living room, where John's books in the shelves gave proof of his ongoing presence, where John's laptop was standing on the table because it belongs there, there in the living room that was their living room again for months now, Sherlock had offered to explain his deduction again. There in their living room, John had exploded.

It had been one sentence. Short and shouted in rage. Enough to make Sherlock flinch and lose control himself.

Somehow he wished he had shouted back at John instead of thrashing things and storming out. And leaving John behind, looking … How had he looked? Sherlock replayed the scene again in his mind. He watched himself losing temper instantly. No, stop. Concentrate on John!

But it didn't work, not right now. Well, maybe he needed to go back in time further. To the crime scene again where John looked tired and confused and … tired. Why did he look that tired? Well, most likely because they had been following several leads for nearly two days now.

Yes, that must be it. John was tired.

But that was no reason to …

And rightfully so, for Sherlock had prevented him from going to bed twice that day. Wait, why had John wanted to go to bed twice a day? Oh, because it had been more than one day. Sherlock checked his mobile. Oh. Three days. Well, no wonder John was looking tired then.

But still, that was no reason to say something as terrible as ….

Three days without sleep was a long time, wasn't it? John usually got grumpy after two.

But still, no reason to say something terrible like …

Like " _I'm really sick of stuff like this!_ "

Oh. Sherlock noticed how his feet stopped walking. He was standing still now, seriously considering what John had said.

It has not been that bad, really. And understandable in retrospect. Damn. So all his thrashing things and stomping and suffering had been a bit … he was not ready to call it "exaggerated", but maybe a bit … slightly … over-reactive?

He sighed. The sun was shining now, he realized, and some birds had the audacity to sing. And he felt not really bad any longer because it really had not been such a big thing. A part of him was a tad disappointed. Your first fight should be about something important, not a little clash of two tired men. But maybe they still could …

His mobile was in his hand before he really noticed it, and he had already dialled John's number.

"Our fight was stupid but can we have make up sex anyway?"

On the other end, he heard silence, then soft laughing. Oh how he loved John's laughing.

"Of course we can," he heard John say with lots and lots of affection in his voice. "I am sorry for lashing out. I was just …"

"Tired, I know," Sherlock finishes for him, already looking for a cab.

They were both quiet for a moment. "John," Sherlock said then, "I am sorry that our first fight was so banal."

Now he could hear John laughing loud and truly amused. "Oh, don't worry, love," he answered, and Sherlock's heart swell at the sound of "love", "that has not been our first fight. Our first quarrel at best."

Sherlock opened his mouth but John spoke up again before he could say something, "And yes, we can still have make-up sex anyway!"

Sherlock felt himself beaming. Unable to say something, he simply hung up.

The sun was shining now, a few white clouds hanging in the air lazily, birds were singing in fresh green trees. Never before has the weather fitted Sherlock's mood more perfectly.


End file.
